


Why Imperator Furiosa Should Never Ever Drink

by hellkitty



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Crack, F/M, Sexsomnia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 16:26:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4066702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Rear Admiral of the Crackship Navy sails again, apparently, with yet another wtf pairing.  </p><p>Sexsomnia; a side garnish of somnophilia, perhaps; mild femdom; and hands in naughty places. And yes, that is a penis joke.  I finally achieved minimal angst! \0/</p><p>Either Coma is a sleepcuddler or he is has the slyest game in the Citadel.  You decide!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why Imperator Furiosa Should Never Ever Drink

  
There were probably a hundred reasons Furiosa never drank.  And now, she thought, waking up, her head throbbing, she had one more.    
  
She didn’t normally drink, but the victory celebration had been, well, something she’d needed, after the battles, six whole days of skirmishing, so when the Chief Imperator had called her name, lauding her, it seemed rude to not at least have a little drink. Just one, to the roar of the War Boys’ hail.  And then, it seemed rude, with the moonshine burning like kerosene in her belly, behind her eyes, not to share the attention with Coma. He’d been part of it, too, six days, nearly nonstop, on his guitar, and she’d felt a thrill run through his body as she caught his hand, dragging him up on the dais alongside her, lifting his hand, thick with callouses, above their heads in victory, and sharing her glass with him, tipping it against his pale mouth.    
  
And then another glass, and then another, the cheers ringing around them, and now, it was that part of the War Boys’ celebration where everyone had drifted off, or passed out, or both, clusters of War Boys draped over each other, limp limbed and loose.  
  
And she...had Coma, his head resting on the hollow of her shoulder, cradled on the padding of her prosthetic arm, his own arm flung over her chest, matching the red-clad thigh hooked over her leg, knee resting...oh god...just where her rank wheel pressed against her...there.  No wonder she’d woken up, feeling the throbbing pressure in her loins.  He must have shifted in his sleep, rocking his knee forward, and the sudden pressure, right on her crotch, had wakened her, cutting through the muzz of alcohol.    
  
Apparently, her gesture had made an impression on him. Either that, or he was a cuddler.    
  
Either way, she could have lived without knowing.  
  
She could feel, if she thought about it, his groin against her, pressing against the curve of her hip, the strange softness men had there,  their contrast to the sinewy solidness of the rest of their bodies.   And she decided she was absolutely not going to think about that, in a sort of magical thinking hope that if she didn’t notice it, he wouldn’t either.  Nope. Not thinking about it.  Not thinking about how if he woke up, or if he had, well, that kind of dream...  
  
Right.  She’d slipped out of enough feasts before, though normally stone sober.  But if she could fight the Buzzards for nearly a week, she could extricate herself from a clingy sleeping drunk partner.    
  
She exhaled, and, holding her breath out, trying to keep herself as still as possible, she edged her hips over, away from the contact.  
  
And she made it about an inch, before he felt the difference, the change in pressure, maybe, and hooked his knee even more around her leg, closing the distance again, pushing her rank insignia...yeah, there again.  And she could also have done without that in another way--the feel of sleek muscle, tensing and powerful.  Yeah.  She gave a swallow, ignoring the sudden flutter in her belly.  She was not getting turned on. Not by a man, not by him. She absolutely was not. It was just...that wheel, riding right over her..right...there. She had to move that. If she could just shift that out of the way, over to one side, or unclip it, she could concentrate. Maybe.  
  
It was worth a shot.    
  
Even if that shot meant sliding her good hand between that wiry thigh and her hip, wriggling the fingers in underneath his leg, groping for--no, not that, but one of the clips.  
  
But it was his inner thigh that her hand was wiggling against.  Bad planning, not to think of that and the way she felt something stir, stiffen against her hip, his spine curving to drag it up against her, giving a soft, pleasurable chuff of sound, a puff of hot air over her chest, over the bands of fabric that bound her breasts that suddenly felt way too thin.    
  
Well, she’d fucked up now, for sure, her hand trapped between his thigh and her own crotch, as he gave a slow, drowsy rock against her hip, her side, and she could feel that hardness swelling against her, a kind of blunt heat.    
  
That was absolutely NOT turning her on.  It was just, you know, pressure, and maybe a little bit of nerves that made her feel warm and fluid and pulsing between her thighs and she was not imagining--at all--that slow thrust, a long, shallow arc, inside her.  It was...it was the alcohol, which was why she should never, ever drink.    
  
Too late for that.  
  
Fine. Fine.  She had tried to do this subtly, and that was her big mistake. Furiosa didn’t really do subtle.  Not her style.  “Hey,” she whispered, “Coma. Wake up.”    
  
A slow squirm against her, the thigh pressing against her hip, the insignia riding..oh god.    
  
“Move,” she said, and her voice didn’t quite have the note of command she might have wanted, sounding a little desperate. “You need to move.”  
  
He...moved. In a manner of speaking.  His hand, sleep-drowsily, squeezed at her breast, kneading at the rise of flesh under the fabric which, yeah, was way too damn thin, and she felt her nipple rise, like a traitor, under his touch, sending tingling ripples through her body.  
  
“Not...that,” she said, tightly. Which had definitely gotten his attention, his fingers circling it slowly, like a buzzard scenting prey.  
  
“I mean this.” She bumped her hip back and realized, almost instantly, her mistake.  Or, wait.  Tactical error. Imperators didn’t make mistakes.  
  
Imperators didn’t find themselves the snuggle buddies of mute musicians, either, she thought, especially ones who had, yeah, that kind of sense of rhythm, as he complied--sort of. He was moving, all right, grinding himself against her more forcibly, his erection hard and jabbing into her side.    
  
How. Many ways. Could he misunderstand her?  Was she that bad at communicating?  By the Mother, though, she was going to blame the heat and friction and pressure of him riding lazily against her hip.  
  
No, she wasn’t done yet.  All right. Third time’s the charmer, she thought.  She hoped.  Because she was finding it increasingly hard to think straight, and finding her objections to being rubbed up on wearing increasingly thin.    
  
“My hand,” she said, going for plain honesty and maybe a bid for sympathy, “Is stuck.” Pressed between his thigh and her hip, crushed under the band of her insignia belt.  There, she was stuck, that’s all, and it wasn’t about her being turned on, or the way the rocking of his hips against her had started to echo in the throbbing of her blood in her veins.  
  
He slowed, the hand finally drifting off her breast, tracing, riding her arm down, to where it disappeared under the insignia’s round rim.  
  
Oh, thank the Mothers. He’d finally figured it out.  
  
Oh. No. No, he hadn’t, because his hand was seeking now, not under the belt alone but under the band of her trousers, fingertips questing blindly, finding that spot of heat and wetness, before hooking, dragging up again, through the central split in her sex and she could feel the pad of his thumb, the strength of his fingers against her slickening skin and his hand forced the belt tighter against her trapped wrist and where in the last hell did he learn to do that?    
  
I could elbow him in the face, she thought. I could do it. I could, but there’d be no way to be quiet about it, no way to play it off, because with the luck she’d been having tonight, his hand would hook into her like a piton and she’d be stuck with his hand in her pants, seen by everyone.    
  
But the way his hand moved, slow and steady, gentle but with just enough pressure, giving little sort of fillip or tweak at the top, was really almost too good.  If she did get him to stop, Furiosa knew she’d spend the rest of the night aching and aroused.    
  
Maybe there were worse things, she thought, or maybe it was the moonshine buzzing in her head, swept on the waves of tingling need.  Wasn’t like she was forcing him into anything, though honestly, right now, that thought was...way more tempting than it should be.    
  
But Furiosa was not a woman who surrendered, so she curled her metal hand up, bringing his head closer to hers, and whispered, her voice as deadly serious as she could make it. “I will, absolutely, get you back for this.”  
  
A whuffle of an exhale--was that a laugh? Was he laughing at her?  Could he laugh? The jerk!  Maybe she wouldn’t get him back after all, just to spite him, but he twisted his shoulders, and his free hand caught hers, hauling it out from under the belt, his trapping knee, and leading it over, across her body, to curl her palm around the shaft he’d been jamming against her, like he was answering her dare.  
  
“I didn’t mean…” Well, too late, because she meant it now, tipping herself closer, twisting through the fabric.  He wanted a contest? He’d get one.    
  
Only problem was...he had a head start.  All right, two problems, because there was no fabric between his fingers and her.    
  
Well, he was a man. Men cheated.  That was how they worked.  Still, it wasn’t going to help him, not if she had (finally) any say.    
  
Which she did, starting now, when she ducked her head down to his, her mouth right by his ear.  “You are,” she said, throwing all the command she could into her voice, “going to come for me.”  
  
A shudder ran through his body, throwing off his slow rhythm, which felt like a taste of victory, already, and she took advantage of the opening, moving her hand off his cock, pulling open the gaping neckline, thrusting her hand back down inside.  One advantage, negated.  
  
His cock felt...different, without the fabric between them, the skin smooth and stretched taut, as she rode it up and down over the shaft, and he was, yeah, the guitar was not overcompensating for anything, at all, she thought, feeling the bead of fluid against the heel of her hand, sliding it down the head.    
  
“I didn’t get an answer,” she prompted, and the voice of command came a little easier now, her belly stirring, with the kind of anticipation that she normally felt just before battle.    
  
He couldn’t speak, but he could nod, and he did, almost fervently, against her shoulder, his mouth working, as though trying to form some sound, seeking and desperate.  He probably got touched only slightly less frequently than she did, she thought, and that somehow took the edge off her competitiveness, even while it whetted her desire, turning that restless energy in her belly into a blade of electricity, and she flung her leg over his hip, pressing their bodies together, legs entangled. “Now,” she hissed in his ear, and Mothers bless him, he obeyed, as if he had simply been waiting for the order, his hips jerking, erratic, against hers, and she felt the pulse along the shaft of his cock, and the jumping, twitching jerk of it in her hand, and it was almost enough for her to hold off her own--but who was she kidding?    
  
Feeling his panting breath against her, his body shuddering like an overtaxed engine, she didn’t have much of a chance, and her thighs clamped around his hand, holding it in place, feeling spasm after spasm tear through her, and the only reason she didn’t scream from it all was because she lunged forward, sinking her teeth into his throat, where she could see his pounding pulse, and she stayed like that, curled, tight, rigid, until the highest edges of it ebbed, and Furiosa flopped back down across both shoulders, forcing her breath to come in deep sighs, trying to ignore the blissful throbs under his still fingers.    
  
She turned to Coma. Right, she thought. Now.  Now I can get out of here, maybe sleep off the rest of the moonshine, and wake up tomorrow and pretend...none of this happened.  We can both just convince ourselves it was the weird kind of dream you dreamed with too much moonshine and victory.  
  
His face was slack, mouth that relaxed serenity of a sleeping innocent, and his weight had flopped back on her, thigh still hooking her leg, almost exactly as before, heavy and immobile.  Dead asleep.    
  
Just like a man.  JUST like a man.  Well. Honestly, it’s not like there was any chance of pillow talk, with him, really was there?    
  
It was just like when she woke up earlier. Almost. But not quite, because this time, there was a splotch of incriminating stickiness on his belly, staining their clothes, against her side, and she could smell the almost-chlorine of a man’s orgasm, blatant over the smell of heady sex and guzzoline, and his hand was thrust, still, down the front of her pants, and the one experimental twist she’d made had moved his fingers just...enough to tell her that that was not an option for escape. And that he was too far gone for her to hope for round two.    
  
She was stuck.  Again.  And Furiosa rolled her eyes up, angrily, at the ceiling above, and then sighed. “Fuck it,” she closed her eyes, wriggling her shoulder a little closer under his cheek, her body melting under his hard hand, the last edges of pleasure, and Joe’s special brew.  She’d deal with it in the morning.    
  
Until then, she could--and would--dream of round two.  



End file.
